6/18/2018 0 Comments ODThey say the current drug epidemic touches everyone. I’ve put drug use in my work--albeit on the fringes, as a pastime of side characters, or a backstory for dysfunction. But perhaps the way I write about chemical dependency is shifting. Yesterday, I had the distinct displeasure of attending my first overdose funeral. Forgive me if this post seems like vaguebooking. As writers, we don’t have permission to tell everyone’s story, so I’m omitting a lot. But here’s what I can share. I didn’t know the deceased, but I knew his mother. And the pain on the face of this otherwise cheerful woman is indescribable. “I don’t know how to go on.” She then described a cycle of getting clean and relapsing that went on for several years. Behind the coiffed hair and mascara, her anguish was sharp. We try to share the burden, but we can’t. An uncle had given a remembrance--mostly humorous stories, with a note of “if only.” After the service, I debated talking to said uncle. Too weird? Too intrusive? I cocked my head to the side, more shy than I normally am. I complimented him on the eulogy, then admitted the real reason for my interest. Someone close to me is using. “The only advice I can give is this. You really can’t help them until they’re ready for help.” And I nod. I’ve heard this before. And I am powerless. I studied the faces of those in attendance, wondering who was an addiction bystander, powerless to help, and who was using right alongside the deceased. I prayed for a wakeup call amid the tattoos, squirmy babies, pressed dress clothes, and ankle monitors, knowing that drug abuse is not a respecter of persons, and that anyone around me could be the recipient of my plea. All I can do is pray--knowing that thanks to the gift of free will, even the man upstairs can’t tie the hands of the addict. Four weeks ago, I met ‘Sally’ at church. She told a hopeful story--her daughter was a year and a half clean, after a prolonged battle that included jail time and sleeping rough. Two weeks ago, I felt especially frustrated by the addict in my life, and wanted to confide in Sally--but could find her nowhere. Last week, she waved, but didn’t have time to talk. Today, a young woman helped me restock the coffee station. She didn’t mention much about her life--just that her mom also helped serve the coffee. I asked her name. “Sally.” I smiled. She didn’t know how much I knew about her. Nor did she know she was a light at the end of my tunnel. Later on, I saw a post on the social media page for our homeowners’ association. One neighbor, pleading with us to help another, one of the most active people in our neighborhood group. His wife needs rehab. He needs a $6,000 deductible, paid up front. A GoFundMe’s been started. This is suburbia. This is America. I sympathized with addicts. I had compassion for people in their inner circle. But it’s a different ballgame now. Happy ending?
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Elena Vale WahlI blogged much more when my kids were small. Hoping my quality supplants quantity. Archives
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